


Means of Refuge

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Cats, Developing Relationship, Episode: s02e04 Neverland, Episode: s03e01 Ride, M/M, Mild Alcohol Dependency, Pets, Prison, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27181886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: He picks himself up the day after Morse found him in that pub. The day his world shattered and yes, he broke, okay? “We'll sort it,” he says coldly, when Strange stops talking. They have to. They have to fix their mistakes. “We'll sort it.”It becomes his priority. Of course it does. He always feels an... obligation, to those he's had in his bed. And it was only twice, and once wasn't technically in a bed, and they both moved on and never mentioned it, but the rule still stands.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50





	Means of Refuge

**Author's Note:**

> “There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.” – Albert Schweitzer
> 
> Morse can handle the music side himself. This story focuses on the cats.

He picks himself up the day after Morse found him in that pub. The day his world shattered and yes, he broke, okay? But he gets back up and he showers and he looks at a slice of toast until his stomach turns and decides against it for him, and then he heads out to work because what else is he going to do?

He stumbles into Strange at the entrance of the station. The larger man snakes one hand under his elbow and steers him round, right back down the steps and out, and it's only because he feels like a damn rock band has taken up residence in his head that he allows it. They end up in a café a few streets over, and Strange orders them both a fry up. Peter nurses his coffee, studying the constable. This isn't something they do, and now they're both late for work – Peter was technically already late when they met on the steps.

He's saying nothing, he decides. Not until he knows what Morse let slip.

“It's bad, Peter.”

His stomach, already nauseous, twists. His throat is tight. He's glad he's so dehydrated, otherwise he thinks his eyes would be watering. Is that what this is, then? Strange is  _ nice. _ Of course he'd think the way to deal with the damaged copper is to take him out, feed him up. Get him away, however briefly, from the stares and the whispers. He should be glad he didn't overrule his order for coffee, and push a strong, sweet tea on him instead. He gulps, feeling the liquid burn all the way down.

“I don't know what you know,” Strange continues, pushing a hand over his hair. Peter's eyes narrow. He knows everything, of course. He lived it.

“It was all a set-up. Morse – Morse warned me, but – but I didn't-” he takes a shuddering breath, and for a minute Peter thinks  _ he's  _ going to cry _. _ He might be missing something here.

The waitress arrives with their food, and by the time she's gone again, Strange has pulled himself together. He squeezes ketchup all over his plate, and Peter's stomach roils again. He stares at his own food, pushes his fork through the beans, spears a mushroom and twirls it. He's still not hungry.

“They shot Thursday-”

He drops his fork.

“-and arrested Morse, he's in the choke-”

If he had any cutlery left there'd be an almighty clatter. As it is, he drops his hands to the table instead, palms flat against the sticky surface. “ _ What? _ ” he growls.

“-and I should have gone, but I-”

He grabs Strange by the collar, sleeves dangerously close to the ketchup, and  _ God _ his head is banging. He glares through it. “Shut up about you. Thursday. Morse. What happened?”

Their food grows cold as the story spills out. A sick feeling of relief spreads through him – Morse hadn’t told – cut through with horror. He should have gone. He let Morse go alone because of his own stupid demons, and now – now one man in hospital and one in  _ prison. _ Because of his  _ cowardice _ .

“We'll sort it,” he says coldly, when Strange stops talking and stares instead at the congealed mess of his breakfast. They have to. They have to fix their mistakes. “We'll sort it.”

–

It becomes his priority. Of course it does. He always feels an... obligation, to those he's had in his bed. And it was only twice, and once wasn't technically in a bed, and they both moved on and never mentioned it, but the rule still stands.

Besides, it's Morse. Even despite all that, he's a fellow copper. One of the good ones, not that he’s fond of admitting it out loud.

He works on the case in secret, Strange and later Bright helping, and it starts to build. Bright's making noises about bringing it to the next level, a proper enquiry. He visits Thursday once a week, keeping him updated and well-supplied with grapes, because he knows Thursday dislikes them and watching him try to hide his grimace every time he refills the bowl feels more real than sitting there exchanging pleasantries. He feels a rush of gratitude for Morse because no matter how close they get, how much they skirt the wire in those updates, Thursday never once looks at him differently. He realises Morse never told  _ anyone,  _ just headed into the unknown and kept his mouth firmly shut, took Peter's secrets with him right into the clink. The higher ups who know why he wasn't there also keep their silence, because exposing him means exposing themselves, and he thinks – maybe. Maybe he's got away with it. If those who don't know wonder why he now slogs night and day to get Morse out, he hopes they just put it down to their weird rivalry.

Other cases still need dealing with, of course, but they’ve lost their shine. Like the Jackson case. Looked open and shut: drunk husband came home and battered wife to death. The whole time Peter searched for another angle, sure they must be missing something. The husband confessed. Nothing deeper there, no clever motive or convoluted cover-up, just bloody violence and a wasted life.

Or the Willborough twins, suspected of knocking over off-licenses. Caught red-handed one evening, done and dusted, as an off-duty copper walked home from the pub.

“Suicide, I'd say.” Dr DeBryn stands and strips off his gloves, turning to his medical kit. Peter watches him pack away. He's been quieter since everything happened too, less ready with an obscure quote or quip. He wonders if he and Morse were closer friends than Peter realised, or if it's just the lack of an appreciative audience. God knows most of it’s always gone right over his head – Socrates and the Romantic poets (or whatever they jabber on about) weren't exactly high on his school's reading list.

“Sure?”

“Ye-” A miaow cuts him off, and they both look down. A tabby cat sits on its haunches, looking up at the two of them. “Well that explains the itching eyes,” DeBryn remarks, picking up his kit. “I'll be going before the sneezing starts. Johnson will be in momentarily for Mrs Benedict.”

“Wait-“ But the doctor has gone, leaving Peter alone. He crouches, and in a quick movement scoops the cat off the ground. It hangs from his hand, looking at him balefully. “Right,” he says to an empty room. “Right.”

-

He takes the cat home with him that night, because by the time they get back to the station it’s almost eight and his call to the shelter rings out. It’s that or leave it under his desk, and he’s not keen to come in and find a pile of shredded paperwork and a bed made out of his spare shirts. 

The next morning he frowns at the cat hair on his carpet, but chucks the thing back onto the passenger seat of the car and drives over to the small building just round the corner from the Pitt Rivers. It tries to stand most of the way, wobbling about and digging its claws into the leather, and he pushes on its haunches periodically to get it to sit down. 

He scoops it up when they arrive, and slams the car door. He’s been here once before, when a natural death left an equally old dog homeless, and it smells just the same.

“Hello?”

The place is deserted, and he taps impatiently on the bell at the counter, left hand still full of dangling cat. He’ll say one thing for it, at least it’s not scratching him to hell. 

A woman with a neat dark ponytail and frosted pink lipstick pokes her head out of a door. “Can I help you?”

“DS Jakes,” he says, reaching awkwardly for his badge. “And cat. Suicide.”

“Looks alright to me,” she quips, stepping into the reception area. “Hello dear, let’s have a look at you.” She takes the cat from him, and he shakes his arm out unobtrusively. “Hmm. Congratulations, it’s a girl.” 

“Great. So do you need me to sign anything, or…?”

“Actually-” she hesitates, and his stomach sinks.

“What?”

“We’re… well, we’re full up. If I take her off you we’ll have to get rid of her.”

“Get rid?”

“You know.” She drags a finger across her neck. Somehow he doubts that’s how they actually do the deed, but the meaning is unmistakable.

“I thought you were a shelter?”

“Yeah, but we have to keep to a limit or we’d have animals crawling over each other, then we’re no better than the places we rescue them from.”

“So you kill them,” he says flatly. She shrugs, but he can tell from the way she burrows her fingers in fur that it doesn’t sit well with her either, and it softens him. “Look, one more. What’s one more?”

“We’re at capacity.”

“ _ One  _ cat, she’s tiny-”

She thrusts the cat back into his arms, until it’s catch her or let her fall - and she’d probably be alright, isn’t it cats that always land on their feet? - but his reflexes kick in and snatch her to safety. “Hold on to her for now. When we’ve got a space, we’ll take her. I’ll reserve it for her. What’s her name?”

“I can’t keep a cat.”

“Then it’s…” she looks at him pointedly and she trails off, and he caves. He’ll just have to hide the cat for a few days. She grins at him. “Name?”

“No idea.”

“Pick one then.”

“What’s your name?”

“You’re not naming a cat after me.”

He sighs, not really in the mood. He’s sure he’s heard that naming a thing makes you attached, and he refuses to get attached to a ball of fur that’ll ruin all his best suits. Not to mention he’ll be dropping her back off here in a day or two. He looks around for inspiration. The white walls preclude creativity, but the cages in the back remind him of prison, and that makes him think of Morse. He wonders if Morse likes cats, and if having something soft and warm in there would make things better or worse. 

He remembers the way Morse would bob his head, tap his fingers, as strains of music flowed through his brain. They might be silenced now. Or they might be his one comfort.

“Melody.”

“Lovely.” She passes him a pad of paper. “Put your number down here, and we’ll give you a call when there’s space.”   
  


\--

Over the next few weeks, he handles life with a cat. Some of it’s disgusting, some of it’s bearable. Some of it he even likes, much as he hates to admit it - like the way she trots over to meet him when she hears his key in the door. He still calls the shelter every other day, because whoever she was doesn’t call him back.

“Still full,” the manager insists, after he finally gets through to her for the eighth time.

“You need to do an adoption drive or-”

“Thank you officer, we’re trying.”

“I just need to get rid of-”

“Yes, we understand, officer. All the best, now.”

Work is the same slog as it was before, but despite that and his lack of progress with Melody, it at least feels like they’re getting somewhere with Morse’s case. Not close, and spending days with his head in Blenheim Vale is wearing him out, but somewhere. He still comes home after long days and finds himself reaching for the bottle a little too often. He tells himself it’s okay. Temporary.

\--

He goes to see Morse in prison eventually, because he feels like he should. He's not sure Morse really wants him there, but he puts himself through the checks and walks to the grey table, taking a seat on the cold metal chair. He studies the way Morse walks over, the way his expression doesn't change when he sinks into the chair across from Peter.

He looks worn out.

He tells him about Thursday. He'd written right away, but got nothing back, and from the look on Morse's face he hadn't ever received them. A few months ago he'd have shrugged it off – who cares about criminals not getting the odd letter? - but now the fury burns white hot within him, and it's a struggle to keep his face straight. He wishes he’d got off his arse and out here sooner. He answers Morse's questions as fully as he can, watches critically the way his shoulders start to creep down from around his ears, and his hands relax into their former busyness – picking at the nails, twitching at his clothes.

He tells him briefly about the investigation too, but it’s not something he can go into in the detail Morse wants. Not here. As they run out of steam, he thinks he should’ve brought something. A book, or some crosswords. Something more than just his presence, something to leave when he's gone, because they both know he won't likely come back. The bell goes, and Morse's head snaps up.

“Are you all right?” Peter asks frantically, words tripping over each other. He hasn’t asked. All this time and he hadn’t asked the one thing that matters. He wants to grab Morse's arm, but he's already standing, all the prisoners are. It's time for them to be locked away again, to disappear through that door into a world he condemns people to but doesn't understand.

“Yeah,” Morse says, heading into line. He knows it's a lie, but he just watches him go anyway, trying to commit him to memory and equally trying not to. Morse in prison. He’d gotten used to the idea, but the reality is a shock of confrontation. Unthinkable. Morse in a police station is odd enough, he belongs in a library, or a classroom, or sprawled over a sofa listening to music.

He swallows, and files out with the mothers and wives and brothers and kids. He drives back to Oxford too quickly round country bends.

When he gets home, Melody takes one look at him and hides in her basket. The smell of the place must be all over him, and he takes a scalding shower, scrubbing any time his mind flashes to Morse in that place. He eats dinner mechanically, picturing Morse turning his nose up at the prison slop. Was that why he was so tired? When it's time for bed, he lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. He imagines another bed above him, anonymous snores ringing out, someone banging against a door, the endless noise surrounding a prison bed. He pictures Morse lying still and wide awake, his hands clenched in the blankets.

Sleep is a long time coming.

–

It took too long – nearly eight weeks, in the end. Morse missed Christmas, and all of January. But now it's February, and while the days dawn late and iron-skied, the worst of the chill is starting to fade.

He collects Morse from the prison, because someone should. He shouldn’t have to hang around for the once an hour bus, like those crims who’ve burnt all their bridges, no one left to care. He chain smokes while he waits and regrets the celebratory whiskey the night before, which has left his head foggy.

Morse appears, and his stomach jolts. He’s not sure he’s ready, stupidly, but hurriedly stubs the latest fag out and winds down the windows. Morse is hunched, shoulders rounded as he shuffles to where Peter's parked. He opens the driver's door, leaning awkwardly half out.

“Morse.” 

Morse nods hello and lowers himself into the passenger seat wordlessly. He has no bag at his feet, nothing to show for the months inside. He looks somehow smaller, buried in his coat. Of course, he’s probably not been eating. Not properly.

Peter clambers back in, shutting the door and turning the key. He glances sideways at the purr of the engine, expecting  _ Morse  _ to come back, to whine about not driving and cross his arms and sulk as Peter smirks.

Morse looks out of the window.

Peter can't handle the silence, so as he drives he prattles. He tells Morse about their recent cases (probably the last thing he wants to hear), the latest football match results (not much better), last week's Doctor Who (great job, remind him what he's missed), and the poster he saw for that Shakespeare play about witches; a new production opening next month.

He thinks he sees a flicker of interest at that, but it might just be that they've pulled up at Morse's flat.

He shuts up, finally, watching Morse grasp the door handle with pale fingers and shuffling himself out the car. He thinks about offering to see him up – check, if nothing else, that the landlord hadn't decided to get rich quick and rent out his flat despite collecting the dues from Peter, Strange and the Thursdays – but by the time he's worked out how to phrase it, Morse is gone.

\--

He slams the receiver down, and immediately feels bad when Melody leaps in the air. She curls back around his feet as she relaxes, though, and he bends to let his fingertips trail through her fur. Another day, another phone call, and another no. At this rate he’ll end up with a pet for life, be one of those sad old cat ladies. Except, you know. Male.

The doorbell rings, and he reluctantly drags himself through to the hall. He’s not expecting anyone, which means it’s probably either the landlord doing a surprise spot inspection (in which case Melody better make herself scarce), or someone selling something.

Only it’s neither. It’s Morse, and he wasn’t even sure he knew where he lived. 

“Uh, hello?”

“Can I come in?”

He steps back but leaves one arm stretched out in offering. Morse walks right through, and by the time he’s latched the door and made his way back, Morse has settled on the sofa like he owns the place. Peter hovers.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

Melody snakes around his ankles and leaps up onto the cushions to investigate this newcomer. Morse raises an eyebrow in return. 

“A cat?”

“Temporary.”

One hand comes down, petting, and Peter knew Melody was a friendly cat, but the way she tiptoes over and curls up in Morse’s lap? It had taken her three days to do that with him. Mind you, he did keep chucking her in the car.

“Shame.”

He crosses and sits at the other end, a careful foot of space between them. It’s only when he’s down he realises he probably should have offered tea, or beer. Something.

“I’m heading out. A friend of mine… he’s got a cottage. I’m going to go stay for a bit.”

He’d known Morse wasn’t coming back to work, at least not straight away - he might be released, but the enquiry continues and he won’t be allowed back until everything’s rubber stamped. His stomach still sinks.

“Whereabouts?”

“On a lake.” 

“Which one?”

Morse shakes his head, and fixes Peter with a sharp look. “Doesn’t matter.”

He doesn’t want to be found. Not even by Peter. He supposes he should be glad of this visit at all, to know this is chosen, not a mysterious disappearing act. He’d have thrown himself into solving that, too, just in case. In case they’d done something even more permanent to him, cement boots and the Cherwell by night.

“Does to me,” he mutters. Morse turns away. “Look,” he says, suddenly desperate. “This friend. Will he be there?”

“No, no, I’m- it’s not like that-” He thinks he can see Morse blushing. Ridiculous complexion, it had been his favourite thing - back then. Back when they were more. “He’s a friend,” he repeats. “From college.”

“I just meant… you shouldn’t be alone.”

“I want to be alone.”

“Morse.” Morse is anchored by Melody, so he stays put even though Peter can see him itching to stalk out. Actually… “Take her with you,” he says, gesturing at the ball of fur.

“Jakes, I’m not taking your cat.”

“She’s not mine. You’d be doing me a favour.”

“Then I’m not taking the cat that happens to be in your living room.”

“She likes you. And the landlord’s coming round tomorrow,” he blurts out. “Checking the gas and that I’ve not trashed the place. But the shelter is full, if she goes back there, they have to put her down. I was… I was going to release her onto the street in the morning.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“She’s a house cat.”

“Jakes.”

“Cottage, you said? You’ll need a mouser.”

“Jakes.”

“She’ll love a lake house. All the…” he wracks his brain for things cats might enjoy. “Fish,” he finishes lamely. “Please?”

Morse sighs, and doesn’t exactly say yes, but Peter has become practiced in deciphering his expressions and knows he’s given in. It’s worrying in itself; he used to have more fight in him than a few half-hearted utterances of Peter’s name. He collects the few cat bits and pieces he has - a bowl, some food - and places the bag at Morse’s feet. 

“You can stay, you know.” He means here, for the night, but Morse smiles ruefully and gets the wrong idea.

“No I can’t. I need to get away.”

Well. He can understand the urge, at least, even if he never let himself have the freedom of running. It’s all very polite as Morse stands, scooping Melody awkwardly under one arm, and picks up the bag of food. He sees them into the hallway, wondering if there’s something else he should be doing or saying as Morse stuffs his feet back into his shoes. He never even took his coat off. He didn’t exactly have extra padding before prison food, but he could be skeletal under that thing now.

Morse is so clearly not okay, that letting him head off alone to some strange lake house seems like a bad idea. But what’s his alternative? Knock him out and tie him to the radiator? Take all his leave at once, and track him through Oxford streets before setting up home in some bush with a pair of binoculars? He can only hope this college friend knows enough, and cares enough, to check in on him.

He closes the door. The flat feels strangely empty with them gone.

\--

He doesn’t see Morse or Melody after that. He gets a concerned phone call from the shelter after almost a fortnight, and admits to them he found a friend to take her in. They’re delighted; he can almost hear the manager’s sigh of relief as she crosses him off her to-do list. 

Work carries on, in the same endless cycling it did while Morse was in gaol. He keeps an eye on the enquiry, and if he spends the nights in his flat thinking back on a tightly wound detective with a tabby cat on his lap, getting hair all over his trousers… well. No one has to know. It’s his problem, he’ll deal with it.

It wasn’t a thing back then, and it certainly isn’t one now.

\--

He’s not prepared for it when they stumble across Morse a few weeks later, elbows on his knees under a tree. He’s an odd mixture of worn and wild, half upper crust socialite and half same old Morse, letting the world drag him down. Peter goes through the motions of police work, helplessly distracted by a Morse who doesn’t push into the investigation, offering unasked for opinions and getting in the way.

He just sits, jacket around his shoulders, and pulls his hair with his hands.

The victim was a friend, it seems. DeBryn carts the body away eventually, and Peter watches Morse shudder. This time, he thinks, it’s not all about the corpse, but about who it was. The man - Bixby - had been attractive, that much was obvious even through the pallor. Perhaps the two of them had been more than friends. He catches Thursday’s eye over Morse’s head, and after a brief wordless conversation the inspector walks away. The scene is almost wrapped up; there are questions to ask, they’ll need to check out the site of that party - but it hovers in some nebulous after. After he’s spoken to Morse.

He hitches his trouser legs and drops into a crouch. Morse shifts, but doesn’t turn to look at him.

“All right?”

No answer.

“How’s Melody?”

Morse stirs, his head tilting and eyes drifting to Peter’s. He looks tired. But then, he’s been up all night. “Who’s Melody?”

He double takes. “My bloody cat, Morse,” he says incredulously. “If you’ve ditched her-”

“Artemis.”

“What?”

“You never told me her name.” Morse pulls the jacket closer around his shoulders. There’s a gap, Peter notices, between where his trousers end, ridden up, and his socks start. A flash of white skin. “I called her Artemis.”

Peter groans. “You turned my cat into an Oxfordite.”

“I didn’t think she was yours?” It’s followed by a smile; just a shadow of Morse’s old cheekiness, and Peter stands. His legs were beginning to cramp. He holds out a hand and hauls Morse upright too. “Besides, Artemis is the Greek goddess of hunting. It’s an extremely apt name for a cat.”

“It’s stuck up,” he argues, jostling their shoulders. He follows, unconsciously, when Morse turns down a small path into the trees. After a minute or two they emerge at a cabin with a pile of chopped wood on the porch and a view of the lake. A familiar tabby cat is sprawled atop the log pile, raising her head as they approach and nimbly hopping down. She twines around Morse’s ankles, then his own. He can’t help stooping for a quick brush of fingers across soft fur. “Morning Melody,” he mumbles.

He glances up, ready for an annoyed grimace or a superior smirk, another biting remark about her name being Artemis. But Morse is turned away, swaying slightly, and the pleased bickering fades right out of him. 

“You should get some sleep,” he says, more roughly than intended. He wonders if Morse is sleeping at all, if he’s able to close his eyes sober. He knows what it’s like to need the numbness of a bottle. He’s crawled his way out of that comfort a few times. It’s all still fresh for Morse. 

“She’s okay,” Morse says from nowhere. At Peter’s confusion, he nods towards the cat. “I looked after her.”

“I know, Morse.”

“I didn’t forget to feed her. She - she likes the log pile. But she comes in at night. I leave the door cracked when I go out. It’s not like I have much worth stealing.”

He’d hazard a guess he’s got a record player in there at least, and several bottles of booze. Things that could be flogged if a thief came along, things a bum might want to help themselves to. But then, it’s not exactly a high traffic area.

“She looks well,” he says carefully.

“You could come check on her, if you wanted.”

He’s about to laugh it off; she’s not really his, fond as he became, and it's clear from one visit Morse is keeping her alive. But then he realises it was an invitation, and Melody might be fine but Morse is pale and shocked and dealing with enough to knock a well-adjusted man for six. Morse has never been that well-adjusted. The denial dies in his throat.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

\--

He heads back out the very next day. It’s too soon to take up a casual invitation, but he’d found himself popping into Richardsons’ for a loaf and a jar of salmon paste and signing out a car, and by the time he’d gone to all that bother it felt too late to call it off, even just in his own head.

He listens to the radio as he drives down leaf-strewn empty roads; just talk shows, nothing grabbing his attention. At the cabin, he parks up, knocks on the door, and smiles obnoxiously when Morse opens it, because he feels fractious and out of sorts and taking it out on Morse is an old habit. He pushes his way inside, to where a lamp glows in a dim corner and Melody lays stretched out on an unmade bed.

“Have you got a knife?” he asks, brandishing the bread loaf. “I didn’t get a chance for dinner.”

Morse finds one wordlessly, and Peter makes two doorstep sandwiches because it’s pretty blunt and doesn’t cut straight. It seems some inkling of hospitality lingers under that exterior, because Morse rustles up a pot of tea in return. Peter rolls the half-empty jar of salmon paste towards Melody, who grabs it between her paws and starts licking it clean while they eat.

“I said I was feeding her,” Morse says, after watching her for several long minutes.

“I know,” he shrugs, wetting his finger and dabbing up the last of his crumbs. “It’s just a treat.”

“You’re trying to win her over.”

“I don’t want a cat.”

“You do a good job of pretending otherwise.” Their mugs are empty, and Morse leans back in his chair. He seems better than yesterday; more awake, at least. It had been a low bar though. “How’s the case? Getting anywhere?”

He’s not sure if it’s a good idea or not, relaying what they have to Morse. Him showing interest seems like a positive step - a tentative move towards coming back to Oxford, to his old life. On the other hand, they’re not talking about any random dead person, and the shadows gather on Morse’s face as Peter talks. Morse grabs glasses and the whiskey bottle, and pours them both generous measures.

“Was he-” Peter starts, when he’s talked out. He cuts himself off. He’s not sure if he wants to know if Bixby was more than a friend. Morse has always been annoyingly good at reading him though, far more than anyone else he’s met. 

He tilts his head and shrugs, and finally downs the whiskey. “Could’ve been. Maybe. I don’t know.”

So it wasn’t anything. Potential, possibility. But Bixby hadn’t rolled in those tangled sheets, messy with cat hair, hadn’t slipped the buttons of Morse’s shirt open at the throat and -

He firmly banishes the mental image. 

“You never told anyone.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. He gestures to Morse to refill his glass, and watches the slosh of amber liquid. The scrape of the cap on the bottle is loud in the still room. 

“Told anyone what?”

“You know, Morse.” Now he’s started, he’s going to have to see it through. “Me. My - my history. You never said.”

Morse’s lip is wet with whiskey and Peter’s glass is empty again. He doesn’t remember drinking it. He grabs the bottle and pours another, careless with it and letting it splash across the table, his fingers. He sucks it off and when he looks up, Morse is watching him closely.

“Wasn’t for me to say.”

“Still. Thanks. It. It’s all sealed. Fifty years.”

“I heard.”

“Like as not I won’t see it unsealed.”

He drinks this glass slowly, telling himself to sip. He’s been down this road before and he won’t go down it again, not this time. Not when Morse is on a precipice too, and the two of them might tumble down it together. 

“Are you okay?” Morse asks.

He slams his glass down. “It was a long time ago,” he says darkly, like that makes any difference. But he’s had weeks to paper over the cracks again. “You’re the one fresh from the clink, Morse. You’re the one dragging your dead maybe-lover from the black lake water. How about you. Are you okay?”

He hadn’t realised he’d stood up until he looks around and he’s towering above Morse. His heartbeat is thudding in his head and he winces, cradling it in his fingers. It’s a bit heavy, a bit thick with alcohol, but he shouldn’t have said that.

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Morse shakes his head. “I am.”

“It’s okay.” Morse avoids his gaze, fiddling with the whiskey bottle label like he’s going to pour them each another glass. He’s not sure what will come out if he has another; enough of his filter is already stripped away.

“I shouldn’t drink any more. The car.”

Morse huffs at that; a sliver of amusement. “You shouldn’t drive already.”

It’s true. His head is dulled, his vision ever so slightly behind where it should be, like he’s the wrong side of glass or underwater. Stupid. He knew he had to drive back, but he hadn’t been thinking, so set on  _ not  _ thinking about Blenheim, about Morse, about the fact they practically share a damn cat and neither of them are anywhere close to okay. As well as that went. 

Melody jumps onto his lap.

“Stay.”

The room has darkened around them; he can’t quite parse Morse’s expression, shadowed with the only lamp behind him. There aren’t many other options out here in the middle of the woods. It’s stay or risk bending the car around a tree. 

“Yeah?”

There’s something enticing about the idea of being with someone who knows him. Morse is the only one. He can’t deny there’s something dangerous about it as well.

Morse shrugs. “If you want.”

So casual. Like it was before, both times, until they got into it - then it was hot, sharp, exciting, until it was over again and they went back to the day job. Morse got himself a girlfriend who bought him scarves and Peter spent his evenings down the Flag. He glances over at the bed, sheets in disarray already, and feels a warm pulse of desire. 

This could be such a bad decision. But he knows he’s already made it.

“Okay.”

Morse stands. He turns, stalks the two steps to the bed and strips off his shirt. Peter leaps to his feet too, shocked at the sudden shift, and dislodges the forgotten Melody from his lap. She yowls as she twists and lands, then streaks off to hide under the table.

“You’ve done some damage there,” Morse murmurs, “she’ll never come back to be your Melody now,” but he - he doesn’t quite care. He’s caught in the sight of Morse undoing his belt, the unselfconscious way he steps out his trousers and pushes the sheets clear of the bed. 

“Morse,” he says.

“What?”

He shakes his head, and strips down to his underwear. It’s cold in the shack without clothes, the spring sun not enough to have left any heat in the walls. It peels away any last awkwardness, and before he knows it he’s horizontal with a half-familiar body in his arms. He feels Morse shiver, and gathers him closer for the body heat, but he keeps shivering, and it takes him longer than it should to realise they’re not shivers. They’re shudders.

“Morse?”

There’s no answer, so he reaches down to draw the covers over them both. It takes some working out, undoing the tangle Morse has left them in, and just as he’s getting it all straightened out Melody pokes her nose out from under the table. He glances down at Morse, turned away, face hidden, and pats gently at his own knee through the sheets. She edges out, then seems to come to a decision, skipping across the floor and up onto the bed. She pauses, lets him stroke her head a few times, forgiven, then pushes her way into the gap between Morse and the wall. He lies back down, tucking them in.

“Artie was cold,” he says, turning on his side and laying a tentative arm over Morse. He keeps his touch light, still. Not asking for anything. Just watches the rise and fall of his chest and thinks how unknown this all is, to be sharing a bed in this way. He hasn’t just laid next to someone since he was a child.

“Artie?”

“I’m not giving you Artemis. Take the victory.”

Morse doesn’t answer, but he thinks he feels some of his tautness fall away. They lie in the darkness for a long time. He’s not sure when he falls asleep.

\--

He wakes early in the morning, hands stretching and expecting to find a warm body, but Morse is already up. He steps into his clothes instead and accepts the mug of tea offered, taking a digestive from the packet on the counter. He dunks it, unwilling to stand on ceremony, and watches as Melody - Artie, he supposes - gobbles her breakfast in an unladylike manner.

“Are you going to come back?” he asks finally.

Morse gulps his tea and lands the mug on the table with a crack. 

“Yes.”

“Good. We could do with you on this one,” he says ruefully. “I know maybe you're too close, but…” But they still need him. He needs him.

“Maybe after.” There’s a pause, then Morse coughs. “Sorry. About last night.” He scrubs at the back of his head with one hand. It messes his bed head into further disarray, and Peter has to hide a smile. He self consciously sweeps his own back, wondering how bad it is. He’ll have to leave soon, or there won’t be the chance to drop by his house before he’s due at the station, and it’s not a good idea to rock up to a load of detectives in yesterday’s shirt.

Peter shrugs, not sure what to say. He thought they’d ignore it entirely, to be perfectly honest. Their MO is not talking about things. He meets Morse’s eye; maybe that’s something they need to change. 

“It was a bad idea,” he admits. “Right then, at least, not - not in general. Necessarily.” He turns away, feeling hot with embarrassment, and washes out his cup. He does Morse’s as well, and then the couple of plates and butter knife piled in the sink. When he finally summons the nerve to turn back, Morse is smirking at him. He scowls back, but without any real anger.

“I’ll see you, then,” he says awkwardly, slinging his jacket over his arm. 

“Yeah.”

He nods sharply. The door closes with a snick behind him, and the crisp spring air is the kind that is to the lungs like a swig of much needed water is to the throat. It clears the last cobwebs from his brain as he unlocks the car and settles behind the steering wheel. The cabin is still and quiet. Morse is in there, but you wouldn’t know it. He lets himself sit, watching for a second, then turns the key in the ignition. Time to solve a murder.

\--

It’s not like he expected Morse to forewarn him; they finished the case, he knew Morse was coming back - even so, it stops him in his tracks when he sweeps towards his chair on Monday morning and spots Morse slumped at his old desk.

It looks right, for the first time in months. Annoying pen clicking and all.

“Morse.”

“Jakes,” Morse greets him. It’s like it always was except for a little glint in his eye. “Fancy a drink after work? You could check in on Artie.”

“Oh right?” he asks, keeping his voice carefully level. “You got a new place or are you still kicking about in that fishing shack?”

Strange walks in, and Peter shifts but forces himself to raise one eyebrow unconcernedly. It’s just the usual ribbing, that’s all. He hangs his jacket on the hook and perches on the edge of his desk.

“Matey! Good to have you back,” Morse smiles under Strange’s shoulder clasp, and Peter’s eyes drift to it. He smirks when Strange steps back and Morse meets his gaze.

“Good to be back,” Morse says. “And yes, Jakes.” Strange walks over to the kettle, motioning towards the two of them, and they both nod, waiting until he gets out three cups. “Found a new place. I need to move my stuff though. And Artie doesn't like cars.”

Peter laughs. “Yeah, I know. She needs holding down. I can help,” he offers, glad Strange is still out of earshot, their conversation further covered by the boiling kettle. “And moving boxes builds up a thirst, I suppose.”

“I’ll get a few beers. And a loaf of bread, teabags, and milk.”

“Oh?”

Morse shrugs. “Moving boxes can be quite tiring, I hear.”

_ “Oh?” _

“And you know, cats and new places. They can be quite upset. They like familiarity, people they know while they settle in. Might be best if you stayed over.”

Strange returns with two cups, and hands one to each of them. He takes it gingerly; he feels sort of warm already, if he tries to drink this he’ll have steam coming from his ears. He hadn’t expected Morse to be so brazen, so cocky. Certainly hadn’t expected him to  _ flirt,  _ in the middle of the  _ station,  _ about their shared  _ cat _ of all things. 

He was right that this could be dangerous. But maybe in the best way.

“If that’s… okay?” Morse asks, losing the confidence all of a sudden, morphing back into the messy contradiction he knows so well.

“Okay,” he chokes out, his smile helplessly real. “I’ll sign out a car.”

**Author's Note:**

> I started this over a year ago, and yesterday I rediscovered it and finished it off! Also please forgive any discrepancies with the timeline/episode events of Ride; it's probably a good year since I saw that as well.


End file.
